We’re the young girls traded on marital market
The lasses whose stories have been rewritten
For we are children and not brides to the grey
We have our own report to give to the creator
But we dare not turn deaf hears to father’s voice
For Alhaji Gambari has given pund to our feofle.
We’re the voiceless sheep in our Shepherd’s roof
For even while the shepherd subjugates our faith
We remain dumb like the sky doesn’t shed light
For who dares abuse the oil that runneth over?
We rather remain silent till the trumpet sounds
For justice ain’t knitted to our nitty naked palm.
We are the innocent guilty ladies on the street
For when two, four & six men piece our robes
We become the shameless ladies of the night
As the world throws series of stones at our face
No one to cast blames on the humanity abusers
For our voice is as dead as the water in a basket.
We are the ink dancing on the pages of letters
As we hide under the umbrella of fragile muse
So we voice out the truth in unread scriptures
For we know how the past gods have been jailed
So we see difficulty in hitting the nail on the head
And our tropes are host of Messiahs to our craft.
We’re the words hidden beneath the rainy tongues
We’re the thoughts that fade at the feet of anxiety
We’re the tiny voices in the ears of the buffaloes
We’re the butcher’s wards feeding on stones & bones
We wish to echo words like a voice in an empty hall
But the boulevards turn them to a drop in the market.
Written by: OYEDOKUN IBUKUN PENAWD
BIO: A ‘vocal-ink’ poet, Playwright and Prolific writer.